


The Wolf and the Serpent

by Laerthel



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen, Loosely CONNECTED stories, Many MANY mythological references, Mythology / Marvel / Headcanons crossover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-02-04 01:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12759882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laerthel/pseuds/Laerthel
Summary: A collection of Norse mythology-based (and perhaps a little bit Marvel-based) stories about Thor, Loki, Sigyn and their family.





	1. The Lay Begins

**Author's Note:**

> (I have originally posed this as a series, then realised that the instalments were too closely connected).
> 
> 'The Wolf and the Serpent' should be seen as a set of tales loosely weaved into one another. The continuity between them is sometimes direct, sometimes isn't.
> 
> I hope to approach the topic (and relationship) of Loki and his "canonical" wife, Sigyn from a point of view that is a bit mythological, a bit tale-like, a bit philosophic and a bit realistic. (I'm generally interested in - and unfortunately, attracted by - ambivalency and earth-shattering moral paradoxons...) I decided to slightly alter my writing style as well for fun's sake, and I'm completely stepping out of my comfort zone by writing ROMANCE. (Me! Romance!) Even though... well, romance is just a small part of the stories.
> 
> While reading, you will encounter many characters and places from the Edda and other ancient sources. The names I gave certain characters, animals, weapons, etc. are all existing and morphologically accurate words in Old Norse. You will find my concerning footnotes at the end of each instalment.
> 
> A note on mythological accuracy: while I have implied many-many elements from the Edda, the narrative doesn't follow that of the heroic lay(s). Actually, it has not much to do with the Thor movies, either. A few details to help your understanding:
> 
> \- I picture the Asgardian gods (both higher and lesser) as genuinely immortal beings.  
> \- I picture the remaining population of Asgard as something like humans - granted, they're aging very slowly... but they're not "superheroes" and they can be killed.  
> \- In Norse mythology, Hela (Hél) is Loki's daughter, and that is the road I'm going to take, if I ever get there.  
> \- I have pictured the entire main storyline happening before the events in the first movie - meaning that both Thor and Loki are still very young (in godly measure) and much less rounded (or, in Loki's case, bitter) than they "now" are.
> 
> \- - -
> 
> Nothing left to say but my usual request - Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small episode with a story-framing fuction. Enjoy!

A whirlwind of ash swooshed into the evening air; a wax-and-wane of red-grey shards, fluttering back among blackened logs like patterns of dried blood on the muzzle of a sated wolf.

A storm-beaten man was gazing into the flames with faraway eyes. The spectacle he so loved was there, mingling with the clinking of cups, the blurred chatter of his kinsmen and the faint pine-smell of his homeland; yet the _sensation_ itself lacked. Mordrig of Glitnir felt no warmth.

Crusty old Nökkvidr beside him cast another piece of wood to feed the flames. Its insides were damp, as it seemed, for the fire hissed and crackled, then; boisterous, angry, like a spoilt princeling at the peak of his tantrum. By the hushed heat of his curses, Mordrig could guess that the smoke was making his friend’s eyes water. Not that it mattered very much, now that he could lose himself in the parade of embers and ash; angry red, withering grey, vivid orange, glassy white.

Mordrig gave a toothy grin to no one in particular; and when Nökkvidr mistook the move and resumed his muttering, he raised his hand in an abrupt, oddly dismissive gesture. He just wanted to watch the flames as they lapped over dying wood, ever so gently, ever so thoroughly, heeding nothing else. And before the old man could cough up one of his dusty arguments about the importance of his ideas, a bard’s voice sliced through the half-silence like a warm knife that melts butter on its ruthless way.

_Hear thee the herald! the horn-blast rang_  
_howling winds ravaged dim dwellings_  
_as the king of Æsir for battle longing_  
_brought Jötnar down in a blaze of bloodshed._

_Ífingr ran red that day, hollies burned in the hills_  
_blood-soaked soil shattered at Ódinn’s command_  
_and the grounds sighed under giant’s steps_  
_to Valhöll many valiant ones have returned._

_Not in a century’s cycle had the Æsir beheld_  
_such a sight; Ódinn in his mantle of might_  
_and red sun rising ‘bove the Hills of Heimdall:_  
_hear thee the herald! The night is young._

The night was young indeed: young enough for the taleteller to begin with the last Great War between Jötnar and Æsir – one of many -, as well as the the glorious homecoming adventures of Ódinn Allfather and his companions. Many children have born, grown up and died in battle since then; and while Mordrig was not even a promise in his mother’s womb when the Lord o’ Giants was vanquished, Nökkvidr was there; and he turned back right from the doorstep of Valhöll to save his captain, as he so liked to tell.

This time, though, he voiced no oration on his battle-deeds when he leaned closer to Mordrig, and whispered,

“Have you heard the news? The Allfather holds a feast in mighty Valaskjalf when the moon turns…”

“That is no news. There is _always_ a feast in Valaskjalf,” Mordrig shrugged, keeping his eyes upon the bard. Soon, he would finish the battle-lay and ask for suggestions; and if there was one song he would have dearly liked to hear that evening, it was that of Ódinn’s sons gambling with a giant. _That_ tale was known to draw laughter and cheering from the audience even in the darkest hours.

“Yet this time, I shall go there and feast with the gods.”

“Very funny.”

“It is no jest. Five hundred years ago today, the war was still raging between us and the Jötnar. King Ódinn shall not forget those who stood by his side. I shall be dwelling in his halls in a month, and so shall Leidhangr, Eidr, Óminni, Einhendr…”

“And Fjöllmenr,” Mordrig guessed. “With his faerie-daughters…”

“Now,” Nökkvidr said, a spark lighting in his eyes. “I am a knight, see, and knights need squires. I was wondering if you would jump on such an opportunity, especially knowing that you may feast your eyes on Fjöllmenr’s daughters – and especially young Sigyn – for three days and three nights, amidst utter merriment. What say’st thou?”

“I’ll be damned if I refuse,” Mordrig laughed from his heart. “A true friend you are, old man.”

‡ ‡ ‡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glitnir in Norse mythology is the hall of Forseti, the Norse god of law and justice, and the seat of justice amongst gods and men. (Fun fact: today, it’s the name of an Icelandic bank). I picture Sigyn and her family as mortals of Forseti’s household.
> 
> The Æsir (in mythology) is the collective name for the principal Asgardian gods.
> 
> ‘Jötnar’ refers to the Jotunn in a beautiful Old Norse plural.
> 
> Ífingr in mythology is the river separating Jötunheimr (Jotunheim) and Ásgardr (Asgard).
> 
> Valaskjalf is one of Odin’s three castles (I chose it to be the ‘main’ one).
> 
> The characters’ names:
> 
> Mordrig (Old Norse Morðríg, [m]: ‘Murder’)  
> Nökkvidr (Old Norse Nøkkvidr, [m] ‘Poorly dressed’ or even ‘Naked’)  
> Fjöllmenr [m]: Crowded, well-attended / sometimes: popular  
> Leidhangr (Old Norse Leiðangr, [m]: Ship)  
> Eidr (Old Norse Eiðr, [m]: Oath)  
> Óminni [m]: Oblivion / forgetfulness  
> Einhendr [m]: One-handed
> 
> For the poem, I borrowed one of the loose poetic structures from the Edda. It’s called málaháttr (speech-meter) and relies on nothing more than stresses and alliterations. By the way, it was unexpectedly hard to reproduce this in English – my native language flows much more naturally with it.


	2. Tracker and Trickster - I.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This was one of those times when Thór would have gladly erased the mirth off his brother’s face with something hard and heavy. Like a hammer…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely connected to 'The Lay Begins', but is the beginning of a separate small tale.

Some twenty leagues north from the dark, mazy conglomerate of Viði, there was an opening in the woodlands where stags were known to wrestle when the leaves turned golden. And golden they were, some even red, orange, or dry brown; yet the stags were nowhere, only a flock of birds frisked about in the verdure. The rest of the world seemed still as a painting, with the stark peaks of Jötunheimr looming on the horizon like sleepy giants.

Two princes lay under the smiling skies, clad in nothing more than the rich green sward that rippled around their figures: one broad, the other graceful; one strong, the other lithe; one head pale golden, the other black as night. They were alike in nothing more than countenance; for both lay in the same uneasy, alerted position and both wore the same puzzled expression on their faces.

“Do you think our clothes have dried now?” Thór whispered.

_Silence._

The golden head turned very slowly, very cautiously to the black, as if afraid that the other would vanish if startled; but received no reaction at all, not even a lifting brow or a sharpened breath.

“Brother? You still hold your grudge against me?”

He could have just as well spoken to a marble statue. Words were no help to him – nor pleading, nor reasoning, nor explaining. Nothing answered him but that dreadful silence; that, and a wolf’s bitter howl from the depths of the forest.

“I was just trying to help!” Thór was out of his patience. “And I will help you get that spear back if you stop being ridiculous.”

Silence.

 “Who should fear your wrath - Me? Father? The abandoned prey? Entire Ásgardr and its people, the horses in the stables and the dogs in the streets? Answer me at least!”

Silence.

“…or is the God of Mischief afraid of a squealing pig? Huh? Is that the case?”

A wave of alert ran through Thór’s entire body when the other face remained still and quiet, unaffected by his pecking. There was no way Loki Odinsson would have tolerated such an insult to his precious pride without a witty remark at the very least.

Something was wrong here, and Thór was determined to right that wrong – but when he leapt up from the everglade and grabbed his brother by the knees (a nice dipping in a fresh mountain spring should always be pleasant, cold be damned!) he found himself falling flat, and coughing as the impact drew the air out of his lungs. Nothing remained of his brother’s lean figure in the sward but a puff of some immaterial smoke that vanished in the morning chill like a shadow in the sun.

“What the…”

Here, Thór Odinsson mumbled a few incoherent words that are probably not worth penning. This was a new sort of trickery, and a spectacular one. Discovering that his brother was well and truly _gone_ – and so were his clothes – proved a far more familiar issue.

‡ ‡ ‡

The birds have moved, the wind ceased, and the morning turned into late afternoon by the time Thór found his way back to the clearing, for he had nowhere else to go. Every now and then, he would hear the horns of the Æsir in the distance, boisterous and ringing; those moments he would halt, and let the hunters move out of range. The God of Thunder had absolutely no intention of letting himself discovered stark naked, scratched all over by pines and twigs, dollops of muddy leaves sticking to his feet. The task of finding his brother – which he had initially foreseen as simple, since Loki usually _craved_ to be found so that he could pull his next trick –, became dull at first, then tiresome, then frustrating, then _infuriating_.

But lo! as he floundered back across the glade, his mood foul and his knees dirty, he found none other than sly Loki, waiting patiently for him. His brother had lighted a fire and roasted a pheasant while he’d been away; he also was dressed, and Thór’s own clothes were spread out around the fire in an entirely un-tricklike manner… in a manner that suggested they were simply left there to dry. (One could never know, though).

 _“Very funny!”_ Thór growled, in a voice that rumbled suddenly very much like brontide. “I’ve been searching for you all day!”

Loki raised his eyes from his dinner, then swiftly dropped his gaze again. Thór could not quite decide if he held more grudge because his brother’s shoulders were clearly shaking from laughter, or because he did not even seem very eager to conceal it.

“I was gone for a hundred heartbeats,” he said with mirth. “Not even enough for the swiftest fawn to run down to the river-bank from here.”

“And you were gone for …?”

“…sticks to gather. Or could the mighty Thór light me a fire from nothing but wet sward? I have rubbed the blood and filth out of your clothes and made you dinner, yet you kick-and-snort at me like an angry foal. Can you not _trust me_ a little?”

“Trust? _You?”_

Loki threw his bundle of clothes at him with a furious dash, yet not even the full might of his strength was enough to make Thór Odinsson waver (as they both knew if would not). They both laughed, and Thór served himself from the spicily smelling meat.

“How did you make a ghost out of yourself?” He could not help but ask. “I have never seen that trick before.”

“It is not perfect yet – therefore, not worth explaining.”

“It looked perfectly real to me. I thought it was you. Well… a stark and mute version of you.”

“And am I stark, or mute?”

Thór considered that for a moment. “Stark – perhaps, a little. Mute… never in my lifetime.”

Loki took his last, lazy bite of pheasant. “See, that is why my magic is not perfect. Yet.”

“I don’t think I ever _want_ it to be so.”

“I can’t fathom why.” His brother was grinning.

Thór shook his head. “Still… what kind of magic is this? I understand that you can borrow the skin of other people, which is bad enough. But creating ghosts of yourself…”

“They are merely reflections… Shards of the same sort of illusion you have suffered a thousand times before. Whether said illusion consists of myself or a snake coiling out of your mouth is completely irrelevant.”

This was one of those times when Thór would have gladly erased the mirth off his brother’s face with something hard and heavy. Like a hammer…

“No, no, you cannot fool me! A reflection shall not move or speak, unless _you_ do. As soon as your shadow is talking and you are _not,_ that is no longer a reflection but another creature entirely!”

“Look who drank a smart potion today!” Loki countered in a singing voice, and gave the fire a stir. “All right, if you insist on talking about things that elude you… I call this sort of magic shape-lifting. Here, are you happy now?”

“I have never heard about that,” Thór crossed his arms. “Only shapeshifting, which I know you master, be it on the inside or outside.”

“I could take that as an insult if I wanted, and do funny things with you.”

“And I could choose to lift you up with two fingers, and throw you to the pigs.”

“I would put my pants on first, if I were you.”

Thór had to laugh at that, and even Loki was smiling as he tugged at the cinder. He seemed to be looking at the patterns, Thór realised while he dressed (and scrubbed the mud off his feet, somewhat fruitlessly). Although his mind was laden with questions, he chose to save them for another time, a time when Loki’s thoughts would be less guarded about his lore. If he pressed the subject _now,_ he would most probably have to settle for the company of a ghost through the whole season to come.

And that would just not do; since before the hunt was over, before they joined their father and before they journeyed home, there was one last thing they needed to accomplish together - Loki’s stubbornness be damned!

‡ ‡ ‡

The opportunity came when the fire burned out, and the shadows started to deepen around them. Loki finished the last chapter of his reading (Thór did not know anyone else who was mentally capable of carrying _a book_ through a week-long hunt), and put it down with a sigh.

“I’ve been thinking…” Thór began, suddenly unsure how to finish the sentence.

“Stop. It doesn’t suit you.”

Thór rolled his eyes. “Nevertheless, I say – well, I say we should finish what we started.”

 _“Quarrelling?_ I’m unsure if we have ever finished it.”

“No, I think we should go back and get your spear!”

Loki’s face was inscrutable.

_“Can’t you just throw me to the pigs instead?”_

“A generous offer,” Thór smiled triumphantly, “but nay. Come on, Loki… Father shall be proud. I have never seen such an enormous creature before.”

“Enormous, and savage.”

“It’s just a boar.”

 _“I know what it is!”_ Loki snapped.

“We shall be the heroes of the whole hunt if we go back and finish it. We shouldn’t have left it off in the first place. Let us show that we are worthy of the Æsir and our father!”

“You speak of finishing it,” his brother looked him straight in the eye: this was rare enough to catch Thór’s attention. _“Finishing._ I don’t think we have the right to do that now. It was a clumsy assault. You only angered it instead of reining it in, and I thrusted that spear through the wrong spot. I would have impaled myself as well if you haven’t…”

“That doesn’t matter now,” Thór grabbed his brother by the shoulders, a sudden fire in his eyes. “A spear through the chest is a spear through the chest. We’ve got it – at least, by the end of the day, we will. _We will catch it, and hunt it down, and it will be served with pastries upon Father’s table.”_

‡ ‡ ‡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Viði, according to the lore, was a castle in Ásgardr.
> 
> I keep names as close (in phonetics) to their Old Norse counterparts as possible, that is why I use Thór instead of Thor (would be Þórr in Old Norse: the same ‘th’ as in ‘thief’), Ódinn instead of Odin (Old Norse Óðinn) and Ásgardr instead of Asgard (Old Norse Ásgarðr. The basic ð sound in the IPA is the same ‘th’ as in ‘there’ and ‘then’, but in many cases, it’s closer to a ‘d’, so you will often see it transcribed as such. ‘Ásgardr’ means “Enclosure of the Aesir”).
> 
> I have my own concept(s) of Loki’s magic (they may or may not be elaborated) later.
> 
> You might have noticed that Thór doesn’t have Mjölnir yet ;)


	3. Purpose

_**This is a direct continuation of 'Tracker and Trickster'.** _

* * *

 

Thór cut to the heart of the forest through paths seldom threaded, and Loki followed with much lighter steps. Occasionally, he would run ahead or stay behind, whenever small things caught his interest: scattered bones, strange flowers, mushrooms, or a curious pattern of bosses in a tree-trunk. Sometimes, he would consider that the creases in this lump or the cracks in that cliff looked like faces and he would talk to them; and Thór would wonder if it was the lumps and cliffs themselves that whispered back, or all was a petty trick of his brother's magic.

Wind rose in the north, with its eerie chant and mocking whistle; every now and then, it sprinkled dirt and dew into their hair from the nearby trees as they walked. The woods were mazy and endless; and silent as a crypt. It seemed that they were down on hunter's luck that day – no deer, no rabbit, not even a chatty thrush crossed their way along the tracks.

(It mattered little, though; for the God of Thunder had laid eyes on a much greater prize).

Thór took a deep breath, and shifted his focus to the task at hand. The mental exercise was exhilarating; it hit him with the same persistent feeling of infatuated power as sharpening a sword on a whetstone or quaffing down a mug of ale before going to battle. No planning, no scheming, no calculating was needed now - he merely had to be in his right mind, so the ways of the world would bend to his will.

However, that was not what his brother needed to hear. Without least a rough conception or an outline of a plan, Loki would be adrift, Thór knew; he would feel lost, aimless like a leaf in the wind – he would probably start acting like one, too. Drifting away… letting his silly ideas carry him around, pursuing no higher aim than the promise of yet another wicked trick…

Thór needed a plan to keep him at bay.

"Here is what we shall do," he turned around to suddenly face Loki, raising his chin with all the princely confidence of his young years. "We'll drive it down the old road. You do the luring, I do the chasing. I will not let it hurt you: this I swear."

"It won't _catch_ me," said Loki in a strange voice. Thór narrowed his eyes in puzzlement as he tried to define it, then settled for 'mockingly reassuring'.

"All the better, but remain a reachable target!"

"I _know_ how to do a chasing, brother."

There was it, the strange waver again: an ephemeral, unsubstantial undertone to that soft voice of melted gold and silk pillows. One could have argued it was never even there, and he, Thór was imagining things…

"…and as soon as we reach the crevice," Loki cooed on, "I jump in, I suppose, and you heroically extinguish that beast. You might also care to sing _'The Chant of the Völvur'_ while it bleeds to death."

Thór could not hold back an obnoxious snort of laughter.

"And yet," Loki mused, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth, "what shall we do afterwards?"

"What do you mean, _afterwards?"_

" _Afterwards_ refers to a consecutive, and somewhat temporary affiliation between me sliding into a crevice in the wall like some rat, you killing the boar, and the two of us having to carry off who-knows-how-many stones of dead meat. Therefore, if I may ask again: _what shall we do afterwards?"_

Thór pursed his lips. He was strong, Loki was agile. He had his bravery as a shield, and Loki his cunning. They would _manage._ Why did his brother always have to find quarrels in a straw?

"Well," he said, "we will carry it, as long as we have to."

"I somewhat despise the picture of us dragging a carcass through Father's lands, sweating and swearing."

"I will carry the prey for you, brother – upon one shoulder, and without any sweat," Thór laughed.

"I spoke of no _prey,"_ said Loki in that terrifyingly soft voice of his. "I spoke of dead meat. You may find that heavy."

"Say what you _mean,_ I am no friend to riddles!" Thór snapped, which of course gained him another riddle.

"Heed my warning, then: our hunt is bound to be fruitless. Killing that beast shall not give you the glory you desire, and my spear-bite has long made its flesh taste bitter. It would be best if we looked for Father, and went home. The torches are lit in Valaskjalf, and there are women and ale – everything my princely brother is known to desire."

"For no drink and no woman's kiss shall Odinsson willingly miss such a chance to prove his worth!" Thór's laughter roared like thunder. "Nonsense! You know I have a proud heart, a wild heart – I could not live with the slightest inkling of failure besmirching my name!"

"What you have, brother," said Loki, "is called hubris. No rarity in Ásgardr, yet somewhat precious. Hold it close while you can."

‡


	4. The Stench of Glory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Direct continuation of ‘Purpose’ – the last instalment of the tale about Thór’s and Loki’s hunt.

_The worst is over, Loki would surely say now if he had breath enough to open that big mouth of his._

To Thór, however, the _best_ was over – all gone, the battle-rage, the screaming cacophony of blood and want and domination; as was the delirious glory of covering yourself in sweat and gore.

 _That_ should have made him feel alive. (It always did).

Creatures were made by the Powers to be hunted, then to be served upon the Ódinn’s table – especially strong, wild, and agile creatures as giant boars. Likewise, the sons of the Æsir were made to hunt those creatures – the fairer they were, the further they were chased – to prove their worth. Such was the natural course of the world Thór Odinsson was familiar with.

Hunting should have made him feel alive.

This one time, it didn’t.

_(He could not even blame it on his brother)._

‡

Their first encounter with the beast had been brief, yet intense.

Across wide meadows they had searched for prey, almost as far as the no man’s land where the ever-blue, ever-cold ravines of Ífingr flew; where the ridges of Jötunheimr swallowed their chatter. Through deep forests they had searched for prey, mud sticking to their boots and stray branchlets floundering in their hair. Through hogbacks and valleys and small passages they had searched for prey, yet it seemed that their luck had forsaken them. But lo! when the fifth day of their hunt dawned, they saw a giant boar in the morning light, its hide so dark it was almost black; its tusks deadlier than sharpened steel. Thór’s heart swelled with pride, then, and with a hunger for glory and adventure; and he convinced Loki to help him bring the beast down.

The rest was hard to remember – all lost in the haze of blood, death, and a great dark shadow charging at Thór when he put one foot wrong, almost rushing to his downfall out of mere… impatience.

(Loki would have said the h-word, that strange equivalent of _stupid pride_ ; or he would have settled for bloodthirst. And it fell to him to do the deed – but how could have mischief succeeded where thunder failed?)

The boar was gone raging, bushes and scrog giving way to its hurrying rout; and Loki’s spear was lost as well, broken in two and poking out through the beast’s hide. One part through the chest and another through the shoulders.

Against all laws of nature and the Æsir’s knowledge, the creature lived, its blind, pain-hazed rage pushing it further and further away from the two hunters. A time came when they could no longer hear its flight, not even with their ears resting upon the ground.

‡

“Failure may taste bitter,” Thór said as he braced himself and stood, “yet seldom does it taste _bloody_ for Odinsson. This was ill done, brother; we have been after a wondrous prey, yet now we’re bound to chase our own lost honour instead, all through the lands of Ásgardr if we need to. For I shall not return to Ódinn’s halls while the beast lives.”

“If not for Loki, all you would chase now would be your breath, with a trunk poking through your ribs,” his brother said.

(A somewhat irrelevant truth).

‡

 

The carcass was not hard to find.

The tracks their prey had left in the agony of lingering death almost followed itself. The boar had tried to trick them even in its pain-rage, or so it seemed, for the thread drifted in circles, sometimes narrow, sometimes wide, sometimes even and sometimes misshapen; yet the downtrodden litter and bloodstained undergrowth betrayed the chased, as did all the brokenly nodding bluebells on the roadside.

_Blood. There was so much blood._

_It was impossible that all this blood came from that one creature!_

Thór flexed and unflexed the muscles in his limbs, the anticipation of battle and challenge ringing in his ears, making his blood boil – then they rounded the last corner, and came to the end of their prowling. One glance was enough for Thór to see that there was nothing to be done – the beast had long passed from the world of the living, without its hunters having seen the life leave its body. It had suffered and writhed and grovelled, and its death was probably excruciating, horrible and devoid of all honour…

…which meant that it was no longer a prey, and they were no longer hunters. They were two princes from Valaskjalf standing above a cooling carcass of a clumsily wounded animal, and nothing more.

Which meant…

“Thór, my dear,” said Loki, and he slid closer to the carcass to remove the pieces of his lance. “If you looked just slightly less miserable, I would say – _Ha! I told ye!”_

“You said it anyway,” Thór groaned.

“I suppose I did. Stranger things have happened under these trees.”

“Can we just _go_ already?”

“Nay,” Loki clicked his tongue, and examined the boar with a pretence of expertise. “I have perfectly good steel stuck in this stubborn pig, and I shall see it removed.”

“Is it really _that_ important?” Thór snapped. “We have failed. We should leave our foe rest.”

“Why would this creature be a foe to us? I daresay we’ve quite bonded.” Loki went even closer, and pinched the animal’s hide around his spearhead. “Tsk-tsk. His winds have failed the God of Thunder… ‘Tis harder than mountain-roots. My poor spear shan’t move a stone away from here. No wonder: death’s rigour makes any craven an archetype of endurance.”

“Then wait three days if it pleases you to pluck out a piece of broken silver from a smelling corpse,” Thór groaned _. “I_ am going home to Valaskjalf, with empty hands, if there be no other way.” After a short silence, he added, “And if someone, _anyone_ hears of this, I’ll threw you across the mountains to the Jötunn.”

Loki twanged his fingernails on the stuck spearhead with a _pling-pling-pling_ that was maddening for Thór to hear.

“Don’t tempt your poor brother so,” said he. “It would almost be worth the flight.”


	5. Of Fjöllmenr and Sigyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: From this point, most of the texts will be lay-like, and less character-centered. However, they will still all be connected.

It is said that Fjöllmenr Einhendrsson was a valiant, fearsome fighter and a noble man of Ásgardr; he fought in many wars, killed many foes, served gods and the Jötunn feared his name. It happened thus that he bore the grace and goodwill of Æsir and Vanir alike. And Forseti, the Lord o’ Justice took a liking to Fjöllmenr and bade him dwell in his halls: Glitnir of white marble walls, in the deepest woodlands of Ódinn’s kingdom where not even the crow flies.

Tale-mongers oft crack a strange smile here, and waggle their eyebrows like one who is in possession of an utmost – and embarrassing – truth; for no man (or god), they say, had ever seen Fjöllmenr’s wife. Some say that she was a faerie, or a nymph, or a goddess herself; tall, strong, and fair – with hair like sunlight paddling in the dewdrops that hang from fresh primroses at springtime, and full lips that were the colour of bilberries. Others say that she was a no-good woman, the proud and ancient type Bragi himself praises in songs that have no place in Valaskjalf. Yet any _skáld_ who has the misfortune to tell such a variation of the tale in the presence of one related to Fjöllmenr shall know swift and painful death. And justly so, we must add; for no matter how wide and plenty Ódinn’s realm might be, there is no place in it for any trouble-maker other than the one Loki.

Yet however much one may respect Fjöllmenr’s valour, one gaze at his children suffices to say that he must have loved a faerie or a nymph or a goddess just the once. For Fjöllmenr had three daughters: Kæra was the eldest, dark of hair and wide of shoulders, who was stronger than some men, lived for the glory of battle and the promise of Valhöll filled her dreams. Byrdh was the second, red of hair, freckled of face, broad of chest; she loved poetry and singing and was known to have a great liking for men, and a want for children; yet if need arose for her to fight, she took her longbow and woe was to any foe who dared cross her way. And Sigyn was the youngest; her hair pale golden, her lips red as strawberries, her stature tall, lithe, and almost otherworldly; and some say that a faint hue of light danced around her in the forest when she sang.

The _skáld_ do not say if she was the most beautiful of the three, yet it is true that she was the most wooed, or at least, spoken of; for something about her drew the eye and made the mind wander. And Sigyn scorned battle, loathed poetry and had more love for trees and beasts than children. She oft wandered the woodlands alone; sometimes, she would stay out for days or weeks then come back home without a word, as silently and elusively as she had left. She spoke to no one of the things she saw or heard throughout her journeys; the inner workings of her mind she guarded in close secret, and if there was any pain in her heart, no one knew. Other times, she would dress as befit a princess and sit at Forseti’s feet in the Halls of Glitnir, listened to justice being served, and wordlessly, she learned. After a time, all the journeys and inquiries and adventures made her seem to have hardened like stone. All she seemed to value were books, law and faultless logic, and she held no interest in the men who competed for her good graces; though sometimes, she let them ask her for a dance, and entertained them with clever remarks of the cruellest sort: those of open scorn and resentment honeyed with charm and wit.

For these reasons among many, neither Kæra nor Byrdh held much love for their sister, and they held a grudge for their father who oft favoured Sigyn over them; and as time passed, it seemed that they were not the only ones in Glitnir who scorned the faerie-daughter behind her back. Yet the god Forseti held Sigyn in high esteem, and oft sat her at the main table at feasts, her chair next to his, and they talked, and no one dared to say a word.

And it is said that despite the love swelling in his heart and all the pride he felt, Fjöllmenr noticed the curious ways of his daughter, and thought it would be best to find a husband for her. He did not tell this to anyone, but Sigyn guessed his thoughts, for she had learned from Forseti how to read people’s minds. And yet she said nothing against his father’s plans and did nothing to prevent them, for Fjöllmenr was invited to Valaskjalf to feast with Allfather Ódinn and the Æsir in honour of his battle-deeds when the moon turned; and he assembled his children and his best men in his halls, offering them to come with him.

And the desire to see the Æsir and their dwelling was stronger in Sigyn’s heart than her fear of any husband her father might find her; so she braced her heart, saddled her horse and rode off with her father’s bannermen to the most curious of dooms.

For it is known that in Valaskjalf, the daughter of a no-good woman who thought she was a faerie met the son of a Jötunn who thought he was an _ás,_ and they fell in love – love it was, at least for a short time, if the words of Bragi could be believed – and not all its fruits were evil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes  
> Forseti, Bragi and Sigyn are “canon” Norse gods. In my version, though, Sigyn is initially a human who will be granted immortality and other godly qualities by Ódinn.  
> Old Norse:  
> ‘ás’ is the singular of ‘Æsir’, basically a ‘god’. In my version of the story, Loki actually *is* a god, but he was made into one by Ódinn, so technically, he *is not* one of the Æsir, even though he’s counted as one.  
> a ‘skáld’ is the equivalent of a ‘bard’. Old Nordic poetry is often called ‘Skaldic’ in reference to them.  
> Name-meanings:  
> Fjöllmenr: ‘Crowded, well-attended’ / sometimes: ‘popular’  
> Einhendr: ‘one-handed’  
> Kæra: “accuse, lay a charge against”  
> Byrdh: “birth”


	6. Usurper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...in which Loki and Sigyn finally meet. Sorry this took so long!

By the time Fjöllmenr and his daughters came to Valaskjalf, the Wolves were getting close to Máni’s shimmering cloak in the skies through their eternal pursuit; and with that, the turning of the Moon approached.

There was a great commotion in Ódinn’s Halls, for the Father of Gods had yet to return from his last hunt; the day of the feast was approaching, yet no word came, and no one heard the call of Thór’s mighty horn above the woodlands.

Five days went by – swift, faint, eventless; and Fjöllmenr and his daughters dwelt in Valaskjalf in honour and with gratitude. Fjöllmenr relished the company of his fellow warriors and they sang songs and told tales of days long gone: they were a pleasure to hear, and children gathered around them in great wonder.

Yet his daughters were gladder still. Kæra felt humbled by the thick walls of the fortress, by the high watchtowers and the valiant men and women who served there; she opened her heart to them and enhanced herself – further still – in the art of war. Byrdh wandered around the kitchens and stables and practicing yards and enjoyed conversations with those she met; and since her eyes were keen and her mind open, she would soon come to know every soul in the castle, to know _stories_ about people, not all of them pleasant.

Sigyn, however, would simply take up the habit of disappearing completely. She was not seen in the practicing fields, nor the stables, nor the kitchens, nor the gardens, nor the court, nor the streets, nor the every-smoking smithy; and not even the surrounding woods. She became silent and chaste to the eye, yet in her gaze was a fire that seemed to burn from within with its ravaging flames. At times, Forseti, God o’ Justice himself would call her name, honouring his friendship with her, yet Sigyn seemed not to heed his word, so invested was she in some secret pursuit. And alas! a dreadful endeavour absorbed her; for her sharp, keen mind was most cunningly lured into the library of Frigg, where she was lost.

The library expanded through four stories, as grand and pompous as the throne room itself where Ódinn would rule from his seat wrought of pride and tears. When one crossed it entirely, it opened to a wide, vaulted archway; amber, ivy and vine embracing delicate columns that garlanded an opening to a garden of many strange flowers and sweet smells, and a small lake.

Sigyn would go there every day, take the first five books to gain her interest and carry them out with her to the lake to read. There was a seat out there, wrought of marble and rimmed with onyx, so masterfully carved that the unknowing eye could mistake it for a soft armchair; but it was hard, lifeless, and so terribly, so profoundly _cold_ that sometimes, Sigyn thought she could feel tendons of ice stretching within her thighs when she sat there too long. The first time she saw it, she would not dare to touch it, hardly even to look at it; yet days went by and no one came to claim the seat, so she did, and all day she would read.

On the sixth day of her dwelling in Valaskjalf, she found a thick, leather-bound book, trimmed with gold, and she was bewildered to open it and realise that it spoke of magic. And in great detail, at that; the book spoke of a power that could change one’s appearance, create illusions, breach through walls, read minds, or see the future. And as Sigyn turned the pages, a slow, gripping feeling of envy and desire possessed her, for she wanted to learn the arts of deception.

That book was the only thing she took with herself to the lake that day; time seemed to stop as she held it between trembling hands and read, and read, and _read_ – and did not even hear the clamour that praised the homecoming of Ódinn.

‡

Dusk came, and the shadows deepened to faceless phantoms around her, growing so giant that she could have weaved a sea-wide cloak out of them if she’d only mastered the secret arts she was reading about. Soon, her eyes would start to twinge, then water from the effort of focused reading in the growing dark. And _then_ came a moment when she could read no longer and decided to go and light a candle; yet when she looked up, she realised she was no longer alone.

The watcher seemed to be a shade among lighter shades, a shadow among friendlier shadows; yet Sigyn had heard how darkness was bound to mislead the eye when the Sun would not look, and she, who knew nothing of darkness, foolishly denied the true knowledge that the night offered her.

“Who are you?” She demanded in the voice of one who is used to vast halls, bended knees, and cumbersome duties.

“I am the crow that cawed at you three times a moon ago, down the great road.”

“You have no wings,” Sigyn lowered her book a little, and crossed her legs. “And I walk no roads.”

“Not all crows have wings, and not all roads are to be walked.”

Sigyn raised an eyebrow. _“That_ is just utter nonsense.”

“Nonsense may be perceived with great variety,” said the newcomer graciously. “For certain, it would seem, it is disguised as a riddle. For others, _nonsense_ may be defined by finally getting home from a cumbersome hunt, only to find their rightful seat taken by a creature of unveiled insolence.”

Sigyn deemed this answer worthy of a smile.

“Now, was that a hypothesis or an insult?”

For some obscure reason, the surprise and sudden admiration that flared up in the stranger’s eyes was much to her satisfaction; and it filled her with a sort of delight she had not felt for a long time, not since she had last engaged Forseti in a particularly long and fruitful debate.

“Who has power enough to set the meaning of words?” Answered the stranger, as if he’d guessed her thoughts. “The God of Justice? _I_ certainly have no intention of deciding such a thing. Have you?”

Sigyn laughed. “Once more I must ask: who are _you,_ other than a crow, an rhetor and a marvellous liar?”

“I am the king of knowledge, and my throne is being usurped by one who shan’t take insults for what they are.”

“Surely, you _are_ the first man I’ve encountered in fair Valaskjalf who has been spared the burden of gallantry! Come, then, take your precious seat (may it freeze your backside into a block of ice), and read in the dark if the throne of arrogance is so indispensable to you!”

This sudden outburst was delivered with lively, theatrical (and not less insolent) humour, and it seemed that the stranger was not used to such curiosities; for a few moments, he seemed stalled in astonishment; but then, he laughed, and in his laughter was mirth and enchantment.

“And you _are_ the first lady I have ever met who has been spared the burden of concealment; yet received a triple dose of wit!”

With that, he opened his palms, and small flames lighted up between his hands: red, yellow, and orange; and suddenly a soft glowing hue was drawn around them, which extended to the lake and the trees until tiny flames danced everywhere around them in a great circle; and the very earth sighed in contentment. The stranger then took her hands into his, and Sigyn felt warmth creeping up her arms and legs: steady and strong, lively, and real; yet she could not tell if it was true or merely an illusion. And when she raised her head in amazement and beheld the stranger’s face –marble skin crowned by lustrous black hair, large lively eyes that seemed green in the flickering light, thin lips, high cheekbones and a smile of mischief and wit – she thought she had never seen anything so marvellously beautiful.

This was not the first time that Sigyn beheld one of the _Æsir_ in earthly disguise, yet gods may sometimes be as different as tulips from dandelions, or tiny lapdogs from Fenrir the Black who swallowed the Moon itself; and thus, she was deceived. Nor was this the first time, for that matter, that a daughter of Men encountered as _Ás_ , and her heart was beguiled and taken for life, more often by mere ignorance than cruelty or sport; however, it has _also_ happened before – rarely so – that such attentions were returned. Were it not Loki, the Master of Mischief and the Great Pretender who was now thusly compromised, one would might as well conclude that nothing of interest, or novelty had transpired that day, near the silent lake in the Gardens of Frigg.

Yet any decent storyteller might conclude that such a development was worthy of mention indeed; for Loki, instead of relishing in the effect of his own magic and letting himself be admired, as he usually would, could only stare at Sigyn, daughter of Fjöllmenr – and stare with eyes wide open and heart fluttering most unbecomingly in his chest –, and speak,

“Who are you, sorceress? Do not go without telling me your name and whence you came. _I must know._ It is my speciality to know things, and make people believe they do not.”

“Then I shan’t tell you, lest you make me forget my own name,” Sigyn said, shivering. “You command fire with the touch of your hands, and _I_ am the sorceress?”

“Such arts might be learned from the books you hold in your lap. If you only tell me who you are, I shall teach you.”

Then, caution was thrown the wind, and she spoke,

“I am Sigyn, daughter of Fjöllmenr, friend of Forseti, guest of Ódinn Allfather in his mighty Halls. And who are _you?”_

The stranger received her words in a silence so deaf, so utterly grave that her very bones trembled with sudden dread. Hesitating, she reached out for the other’s hands again, ignoring how bold, how utterly inappropriate the gesture was.

His hands, she did touch; and immediately his figure vanished, and the lights went out around her. She was left alone in the dark, with an all-consuming fire flaring up in her heart, and the memory of those bright, sly eyes.

She had almost already convinced herself that the whole encounter was merely a dream, when she realised that all books have disappeared from her lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Notes  
> Máni (Old Norse "moon") is the personification of the moon in Norse mythology. He is the brother of the personified sun, Sól. They ride through the sky on horse-drawn chariots. The horses who pull Mani’s chariot are never named, but Sol’s horses are apparently named Árvakr (“Early Riser”) and Alsviðr (“Swift”). They ride “swiftly” because they’re pursued through the sky by the wolves Skoll (“Mockery”) and Hati (“Hate”), who overtake them when the cosmos descends back into chaos during Ragnarok. (you can find the extended article on norse-mythology [dot] org).
> 
> This story (as mentioned before) employs the Marvel storyline, in which Loki is the adopted son of Ódinn, and he has no idea of his true origins.


	7. Enchantment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I did only one proofreading for this chapter, so mistakes may occur. Please - if anyone reads this - feel free to point them out!

** Enchantment **

The following day, a great celebration was held in Ódinn’s Halls, for the hunt with his sons had been greatly successful; and it seemed that even Thór – who would be known for his boasting and slight encroachments when it came to demonstrations of valour – behaved in a manner unprecedently close to humbleness. For he and Loki – Ódinn flaunted with a cup of ale in his hands, and thunder in his voice –, would disappear during the hunt, and the rest of the party would only find them seven days later, next to the carcass of a giant boar they had slain, together, it seemed.

Yet Thór would not speak of what befell them through the course of those seven days; indeed, he would not say a word. Instead rose Loki, and spoke of his brother’s heroism in words so persuasively sweet that all eyes watered in Valaskjalf, all cheeks would become rosy – especially those of the female persuasion -, and Asgardians would smile and sigh, and the Æsir would raise their bejewelled cups for Thór, as they shouted _praise him with great praise!_

Yet Thór would not drink, or speak, or raise his head when the boar was mentioned, save for the tense, determined rebuke that _’twas, in truth, Loki who should be praised;_ upon which statement the good people of Ásgardr refilled their cups and emptied them anew, this time for the sly Lord o’ Mischief (not a soul could deny that they were fond of drinking). Then, the boar was served with pastries upon Ódinn’s table, and the Æsir tasted it all, one by one; and there was great bewilderment, for it felt bitter for certain, and for others, sweet.

Seeing what appeared to be a truce between his ever-combative sons, Ódinn was pleased, and he sent for more food and drink, then commanded that the celebrations should continue until the Moon would once more appear in the skies; for the Wolves had swallowed it indeed, and the skies were dark, and scattered with stars.

It happened thus that Fjöllmenr gathered his three daughters and descended to the Great Hall of Valaskjalf, among Æsir and Vanir and mortal Men alike, and he did so with great expectations; for many of his fellow warriors had sons, and he knew that he would quite feasibly find worthy husbands for his daughters if he looked closely enough. Indeed, his daughters were thoroughly wooed, especially the one Sigyn; yet she was the only one not to answer those in pursuit, not to grant them attention willingly and only to speak when asked. Some great bewilderment seemed to have overruled her; her fair brows were furrowed, her motions scarce and her voice hushed, as if something of unfathomable greatness and depth had occupied her every thought and morsel of care. Thus, her suitors have soon found other targets – all of them, save one, for that matter.

This man was called Theoric, son of Einhendr the Steadfast, a great hunter of giants and a greater friend to Fjöllmenr; and for his young age, he had been in many battles, mastered many arms and possessed many crafts. From Valaskjalf to Viði, people would sing the praises of his deeds, his wisdom and generosity. Yet Theoric, for all his valour and greatness, was no vain man, and his reflective cleverness was profoundly different from the sharp, oftentimes cruel wit of Sigyn; therefore, conversing with Theoric began to bore her as soon as they danced their second round in the back of Ódinn’s Halls. Nevertheless, she _did_ dance with him, and Fjöllmenr was glad to see it happen so.

‡

At the same instant when satisfaction settled in Fjöllmenr’s good heart, Loki, God of Mischief looked down to the crowd of mortal men from his high seat at Ódinn’s left, and saw Sigyn as lightly, lithely, she danced with valiant Theoric; and he was displeased. Such a naturally great liar was Loki that thoughtless, unguarded, he deluded his own self; and he spoke to Ódinn, with a stirring in his heart that he _himself_ mistook for grace and magnanimity, so earnest it would appear.

“Good Father mine! Grand are these halls and wondrous the merriment around us; yet I cannot help but ask _why_ we would separate ourselves so loftily from mortal Men. There are heroes and warriors in these Halls; would it not be most fitting to invite them to dine at your own table, along with their children, and give them your blessing? ‘Twould seem only too little of a thanks for the great, unwavering loyalty they have to thee.”

“Rightfully you speak, Odinsson,” said the Allfather, and emptied his cup. “What say’st thou, Thór? Does Loki tell the truth, for once?”

“He does indeed,” said Thór, with a smile on his earnest face, “and cherish this moment of wonder I shall. Let the mortals come, and we shall see if they can bear the merriment of the Æsir!”

Thus, their agreement was made; and Frigg descended the marble steps that led from Ódinn’s table, and Freyja followed her, and the Valkyries themselves were in their heels; and they went to the warriors and their kindred and invited them to dine with the gods. The table was long, and Ódinn’s command made it longer still, so most convenient seats would appear everywhere they were needed.

Out of chance and unconscious intention, Fjöllmenr and his daughters were seated closest to the head of the table, along with Einhendr and Theoric, in a design that Sigyn and her suitor faced each other. And even as all the grandeur and glamour of Valaskjalf surrounded them, Theoric had only eyes for Sigyn; yet Sigyn had only eyes for the grandeur and glamour. And she remained silent while greetings, praise and pleasantries were exchanged between gods and men; in her heart, a deep, secret desire arose: a feverish want to be immortal like the Æsir, and a hungry wish to master all kinds of magic and forbidden lore.

Thus, she did what very few dared to do; she raised her eyes, even while her father, her sisters and all her kinsmen were bowed, and boldly, she faced the Allfather at the head of the table, and beheld his sons who sat at his two sides (Thór at his right hand and Loki at his left). And Loki did not wear his great horned helmet, nor the dark winged cloak that carried him oftentimes above the hills and rivers of Ásgardr, and nor was he otherwise disguised; Sigyn recognised him, both as the Trickster and the one who filled her heart, and she wondered.

And Loki would look at her and laugh, for the night was young, and his mood was high.

“Father mine!” Said he, “I am overjoyed, I must confess, to see brave Fjöllmenr and his kin around our table! Such pleasure! And brother mine”, he then added, with a privy and most inconvenient wink at Thór, “I am so pleased to introduce to thee the fairest Lady Sigyn, who made such a sparkling comment on my backside the other day!”

There was no sound around the table, save for the general noises of bewilderment, and her sisters looked at Sigyn with indignation and disbelief; yet she only smiled, and said, in a voice that was low and still, yet could be heard clearly all along the high table,

“Surprised I am, Lord, that a master of glamour and deception could be this easily swayed! You have told me yourself, with grave vehemence, that no man or god had the power to expropriate the meaning that words held! Now, was that one of your cunning lies as well? Would it be so impossible that one should speak of the other’s backside while referring to, for instance, their very face?”

Such a response was enough to silence Ódinn’s entire Hall; and that silence stretched and stretched, until it was almost unbearable; yet all of a sudden, Thór broke it with his thunderous laughter. And Ódinn laughed with him and Freyja and even Frigg; and then did all the rest, gods and men alike, and so great was the merriment that Sigyn began to secretly fear Loki’s wrath. Indeed, all eyes were turned on the God of Mischief in anticipation; and lo! against all odds and expectations, all he did was smile, and bow.

“No proper trickster can deny when they were most unmercifully tricked; but it may be – _it may be_ – that ‘twas not entirely without merit. After such a ceremonious defeat, Loki can only hope that the Faerie of Wit shall gracefully accept his hand for her next dance; although it would be a greater gift than the recompense fairly due.”

“Hope, if you must,” said Sigyn, more out of habit than intention, for her heart was swayed, and heat rose to her cheeks, no longer unseen.

And dance with her, Loki did; gracefully they led the line of god and men, mingled more than was usual; and together they would stay until the Moon’s thin crescent appeared in the starry skies. One dance after the other, Sigyn granted to the Trickster and those who saw them wondered, for they seemed a worthy pair.

Sigyn would talk and Loki would listen; and he would learn all the small secrets of her heart, more proud, more free than any heart he ever had the occasion to break; deeper and deeper he would delve, yet always he would find another shard of wit, another curious thought, another hidden quality that made his eyes widen and his heart race. A raw gem was in his hands, or so he deemed; a woman of brightness, of talent, and of the sharpest wit. Like a bird, she seemed to him, a delicate white bird that could have flown higher than the Sun and Moon if not for the fetters of humankind, and, especially, mortality. And he wanted to have her for himself, to teach her all sorts of things he liked: to see how she would end up if made a sorceress, enlightened, empowered. Never had Loki wished so fervently to master the Imperishable Flame like Ódinn did; Ódinn Allfather, who could raise mortals to the ranks of gods. As he led Sigyn in dance – and later, out into the soothing darkness of the woods, where only the stars, the giant trees and the nightingales would see them –, he wished he could steal a sparkle of that flame, and plant it in her heart, making her his lover, his _possession_ ‘till Ragnarøk and after.

Time passed, relentlessly so, yet Sigyn failed to notice; the very time seemed to have stopped as she was held in the arms of Loki. The chill of the night could not reach her, and all her wishes, ploys and endeavours were forgotten; and to Loki she would talk eagerly, in a hushed voice that spoke from the echoing depths of her curious spirit. And it seemed to her that the Trickster understood, for Loki possessed such a talent of listening that his very eyes drank in the knowledge that she offered her; like two bottomless dark wells, like two windows opening to a starless night, like two gems of shining onyx from the Doors of Valhöll.

Seldom did Loki speak to her while they danced, and even less when he led her out from Valaskjalf on his arm; yet as they threaded the meandering paths through hills, rivers, and shady groves, he would find his voice, and he would tell her many things. He would teach her how to greet the wind and shoo the lengthening shadows, how to speak to birds and wolves and other beasts, how to make a curse on one unworthy and how to break it, how to see through the masks of pretence that people stick to their faces without the slightest knowledge or sophistry; and a great many other things he showed her. And it seemed to Sigyn that his words were wise, yet not less cunning; and his intentions, sometimes darker than coal, were not at the least bit concealed; and with that she was pleased. Many a riddle they threw at each other under the shade of trees, much did they laugh, and many questions did they ask; and a sparkle of kinship kindled between them, a small, yet pervading flame that could not be ignored or blown out by the breeze of reason.

Sigyn had felt these feelings lingering ever since she had encountered the God o’ Mischief the other day beside the lake, and there was a part in her that knew they were inevitable; yet what sly Loki felt was wildfire, and exposing heat, and a terrible, _terrible openness_ that bared him to the bone. Yet in his youth and arrogance, he would ignore it, and make his pounce into the shapeless realms of passion as Thór would charge at the boar that swallowed his thunderous ambitions.

For a long time have Sigyn and Loki walked; and after what seemed thousands of years or maybe merely an instant, Loki took the youngest daughter of Fjöllmenr in his arms (not far from the lake of Frigg, for that matter), and Sigyn tasted his kiss; and upon her skin the godly touch would burn for many days to come.


End file.
